The shifting in my throat sends a spike of pain and then I'm back to speaking Thivoll's gravely language.
"He said we can go to him. He sounds like he's lost hope, Thivoll. We need to help him, though I don't know how."
He hums. "We'll go closer, but if he seems dangerous, I'll retreat if I'm able to or kill if I must. You should be ready for fast movements and keep holding tight to me."
I don't think it'll be necessary, but I can appreciate his caution. "Alright."
My throat painfully changes and I let the male know we're coming closer.
"I await," he sings back.
Thivoll lopes forward, then pulls up when we can make out a figure among the trees. The light is rapidly fading, but I can still see him clearly.
I'm instantly struck by the beauty of his coloring.
His skin is mostly a canary yellow, but with beautiful cobalt spots. His skin looks leathery, but soft, with intermittent thin feathers along it, then much thicker and longer feathers around his head, sweeping back from a triangular forehead.
His mouth is broad, and it reminds me more of a salamander's face than a bird's, despite what the feathers would suggest he should have.
He's easily ten feet tall, with two sets of arms that are much longer than his legs. Each one has long, thin fingers with white claws on the ends.
His eyes are on the side of his face and are a brilliant green with horizontal irises. The same green shows up in mesmerizing patterns along his feathers, mixed in with yellow spots.
He holds all four of his hands together, clasping onto the set not directly aligned and tilts his head. "My greetings."
I try to mimic his gesture, but assume a lot of the meaning is lost with only two arms. Thivoll shifts under me, I assume so he can somehow return the greeting.
"Greetings. I am Ree. Your name?"
"I am—"
What follows is a long string of sounds that don't translate. My mind is busy trying to make associations and I think I pick out thechicka-dee-dee-deesound I used to hear outside my window as a child growing up in the suburbs.
"My regrets. Do not understand."
He sings it again, but the nanites don't help clear up the mystery.
"May I name you Szhe'ka-day-day-day?"
The sounds take on a new meaning and nuance when sung in his tonalities. When I sing it back to him it sounds flat.
"If short you like, then Szhe'ka."
"My regrets."
He holds out two of his hands and makes a small circle with his fingers. "No need for regret."
With that settled, the male deflates.
He crouches down, a feathered structure that isn't quite like wings shifts behind him. He wraps both sets of arms around his comparatively short legs, as if hugging himself.
Or trying to hold himself together.
His feet are bloodied and bruised. I'm itching to ask him if I can treat him, but I only have enough to clean and stitch a few wounds.
What if we find another woman and she needs treatment? Prickles of unease rise as I decide to withhold treatment.
The clenching sickness in my stomach is a fitting punishment for such a betrayal of my base principles.
